She stood still and looked at her reflection in
the mirror. This wasn’t a person whom she knew. Whose reflection was it? What
had become of her? She used to be vivacious and outgoing. She was a fighter not
a quitter. She took life as it came her way. But that incident changed her life…the
time when she was molested on the railway platform. The bystanders enjoyed the
show. “Were people really that insensitive and cruel and inhumane that they get
reduced to such sub-human standards?” she thought on the verge of hysteria. She
loathed those hands…those evil, harsh and blatant hands. The memories of that
terrible incident were etched on her mind. She was over ruled by the penumbral
shadow of solitude. Life seemed dichromatic now – just black and white. Her
insides where screaming with agony. Why me? She felt violated and besmirched.
Those hands…those merciless and tarnished hands. She got up and walked towards
the balcony. With her trembling legs she climbed the parapet and stood gazing
at the world below.
The cool breeze was flowing through her hair, her favourite white dress
fluttering and her heart numb. But she was not a quitter. It struck her...was
life that cheap enough to dispose it away? It was not worth...that too for a
sick pervert! She had to accomplish so much...her dreams and her aspirations.
She got down. Her soul now soared high above. She felt worthy and lively again.
She gaped at sun which was setting on the horizon. She sat on the rickety chair
which was there in the balcony and looked at the white pigeon as it flew away
into the hues of the setting sun...
